The best way to obtain a fair view of the beautiful proportions of the nave and of the most striking picture of the interior of the church, is to enter by the south-west door or porch. Here in Saxon days courts of law were held, cases being tried which could not be referred to other courts. Prior Chillenden about 1400 built the

present fine porch; he was a man of energy, and to him and to those whom he inspired to do his biddings Canterbury owes a great debt. Erasmus has described for us the figures that used to occupy the panel above the entrance, the effigies of Becket’s murderers, who, he says, go down to the ages with much the same ill-name as that which pertains to Pilate, Judas and Caiaphas. Some vague fragments of the carving still survive, including an altar, probably that of the Martyrdom. In the vaulting of the porch are various coats-of-arms, among them those of the Sees of Canterbury and Chichester, and of the kingdoms of England and of France. In accordance with an idea suggested by Dean Alford, some of the niches here and on the west front have been filled in recent days with statues of men of note who in one way or another have been connected with the history of the Cathedral.

They are solemn stones, or rather it is solemn ground this, over which we pass, “where the saints have trod”—saints, soldiers, ecclesiastics, Christians all in their several degrees, from dim Saxon days down to this present moment.

Now, we enter the nave.

Somewhat cold, somewhat unearthly almost, is the impression made by the forest of pillars rising through the clerestory to the vaulted roof; stretching away to the central tower—Bell Harry—where light shines down into the gloom. A beautiful place wherein to rest and dream dreams of the past. All now is grey, but in bygone ages the great church blazed with colours; paintings and rich hangings adorned the walls; there were numberless altars with their tiny points of light, and all was enriched and at the same time mellowed by the splendour shed upon pavement and pillar from the “storied windows richly dight.” Who shall say whether the change from pomp to simplicity be for better or for worse? As with so many other matters in this opinionative world, it all depends upon the point of view; doubtless to the stern ascetic the rule that now obtains is for the best; upon the superstitious pilgrim of old the glories of the past assuredly had their influence. Yet, why think of what has gone, when that which remains is so worthy?

The nave dates from about 1378 to 1411, in which last year the builder of it, the aforementioned Prior Chillenden, died, “who after nobly ruling as Prior of this church for twenty years twenty-five weeks and five days,” says his epitaph, as given by Willis, “at length on the day of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary closed his last day.” As it was written of Christopher Wren, so here it might be of Chillenden—“If monument be asked for, look around.” The architecture here is Perpendicular, contrasting exquisitely with the early work of the choir; it is no new simile—but there is no call to provide a new when the old is so good—to say that these splendid pillars, rising from their firm, fixed roots in the stony floor and springing up into the grey heights far above, strike deep upon the imagination as being akin to the glorious pillars of a stately forest.

A curious and oft-repeated error is to say that Canterbury is unique among churches, in that from the nave we look up to the choir, the latter being raised on the crypt. A precisely similar cause and effect are to be found, for example, at Worcester.

The stained glass which once adorned the nave, is gone, smashed by zealous Puritans, and all of olden colour that we now see is in the great west window, compiled of fragments from those that have departed.

Of the tombs and monuments in the nave the most noteworthy are in the north aisle—those of Charles the First’s famous organist, Orlando Gibbons; of Sir John Boys, founder of the hospital for the poor near the North Gate of the city; and the altar tomb of Archbishop Sumner. Also to be noted, a window to the memory of Dean Stanley, sometime canon of the Cathedral and writer of that famous work, Historical Memorials of Canterbury.

As we stand in the choir of to-day, we would indeed be of dull imagination did we not see and drink in the poetic beauty of such a growth as this, beautiful in its association with the centuries, with countless thousands of worshippers; beautiful intrinsically and as a record of faithful labour, of splendid artistry, of devout perseverance. There are other cathedral choirs more perfect as specimens of one or other style of architecture, but not one more hallowed by sacred and stirring memories. Here stands Norman and Early English work side by side, melting, as historically they did, from one into the other; the work of French and English hands and brains. Here the mind is forcibly carried back to the far, dim ages, when on this very ground the rude Saxons worshipped—this ground which Augustine found already dedicated to the worship of Christ, upon which he reared his new temple,

where ever since has sounded the chanting of the monks and of sweet-voiced choirs.

One unusual structural feature at once strikes even the usually unobservant; the trend inward of the walls as they reach toward the east, accounted for by the builders having to accommodate themselves to the two towers of St Anselm and St Andrew, left undestroyed by the great fire which called for the rebuilding of the choir. It is not possible to say with any degree of surety at what point the work of French William ended and was succeeded by that of English William; and, indeed, it is most probable that the latter worked from and completed the designs of the former. Striking, however, is the exquisite contrast in the combination of the French stone from Caen and the English Purbeck marble. Glorious as was the choir of Conrad, this that succeeded to it is far more beautiful and, of course, more ornate. The mouldings are very varied—billet-work, dog-tooth, zigzag and so forth, Norman intermixed with the succeeding style. Gervase states that “The old capitals were plain, the new are most artistically sculptured. The old arches and everything else either plain, or sculptured with an axe and not with a chisel; but in the new work first-rate sculpture abounded everywhere. In the old work no marble shafts, in the new innumerable ones.” But excellent work in stone can be executed with the axe in skilful, practised hands—easy tools do not necessarily mean fine output; and Willis points out the interesting fact that down to his day at any rate French masons used the axe “with great dexterity in carving.”

A noteworthy feature of the triforium is the curious conjuncture of an outer round-headed arch enclosing two that are pointed, again a mingling of the Norman and Early English styles. To quote Willis yet again, this “may have arisen either from the indifference of the artist as to the mixture of forms, or else from deliberate contrivance; for as he was compelled, from the nature of his work, to retain round-headed arcades, windows, and arches in the side-aisles, and yet was accustomed to and desirous of employing pointed arches in his new building, he might discreetly mix some round-headed arches with them, in order to make the contrast less offensive by causing the mixture of forms to pervade the whole composition, as if an intentional principle.” Commentators are very fond of reading into the works of dead and gone writers, in particular into the plays and poems of Shakespeare, thoughts and speculations and intentions entirely alien to past ages. Is it not more than likely that architectural critics fall not seldom into the same blunder? Probably the sheer truth concerning these old builders is that they builded better than they knew, and that we with the light of later and present days attribute to design what was the result of inadvertence. But why analyse and speculate? Let us be thankful for what we have received; if it be justifiable to say grace before books, how much more so to return thanks for these pictures drawn in stone.

Around the choir stands the screen of Prior Henry de Estria, dating from about 1305, at least partly his handiwork; and noteworthy is the Norman doorway.

The altar stands high, situated as it is above the later and loftier portion of the crypt. Rich indeed it must have been in pre-Reformation days, glowing with its costly and precious vessels; in a grated vault beneath it, the treasury of gold and silver, which would have made Croesus and Midas feel poor, so says Erasmus. Most of this splendour was swept up by the greedy hands of Henry VIII., the “professional widower” and equally professional thief, and what of beauty this sinner left undespoiled was destroyed by Puritan saints. The present altar is rich, but not religiously impressive.

The vast difference between the Christianity of mediÆval times and of the days that followed the Reformation cannot be more forcibly emphasised than by recalling that this choir, now the centre of a simple ritual, was then one of the most famous homes of relic worship. To the new choir when ready to receive them were restored—they had stood in its predecessor—the remains of St Dunstan and of St Alphege, “the co-exiles of the monks.” Says Gervase: “Prior Alan, taking with him nine of the brethren of the Church in whom he could trust, went by night to the tombs of the saints, so that he might not be incommoded by a crowd, and having locked the doors of the church, he commanded the stone-work that enclosed them to be taken down. The monks and servants of the Church, in obedience to the Prior’s commands, took the structure to pieces, opened the stone coffins of the saints, and bore their relics to the vestiarium. Then, having removed the cloths in which they had been wrapped, and which were half-consumed from age and rottenness, they covered them with other and more handsome palls, and bound them with linen bands. They bore the saints, thus prepared, to their altars, and deposited them in wooden chests, covered within and without with lead; which chests, thus lead-covered, and strongly bound with iron, were enclosed in stone-work that was consolidated with melted lead.” There is eloquent evidence of the morality of the times in that “in whom he could trust”; thefts of relics were common enough, and monks earned high recompense for showing themselves successful “cracksmen.”

Indeed, the bones of the saints were often the cause of bad blood between communities of Christians, who preached to others peace and goodwill among men. These very relics of St Dunstan are a case very much to the point. The monks of Glastonbury denied that Canterbury possessed them at all, saying that they had been conveyed thence to Glastonbury when the Danes had sacked the metropolitan church. In 1508 Archbishop Warham, little foreseeing the near approach of these days when saints’ relics would not any longer be a valuable property, answered this claim by opening the shrine, wherein lay fragments of a human body, and on the heart a leaden plate bearing the words Sanctus Dunstanus. The Abbot of Glastonbury, however, refused to be convinced or to be comforted, at last pitiably confessing that “the people had believed in the genuineness of their saint for so long” that he was afraid to speak the truth to them! When the tomb was laid open, the skull of the saint was removed from it, set in a silver reliquary, and added to the other relics that were displayed to wondering though not always credulous pilgrims. Among these other relics may be named the right arm of Jesus Christ, some of the clay from which Adam was created and portions of Aaron’s rod. Wonderful are the abuses of credulity.

Of the shrine or altar of St Dunstan, destroyed at the Reformation, on the south of the great altar, some Decorated diaper work is all the remnant; of that of St Alphege, which probably stood opposite, there remains not a trace.

There are many tombs here which may well give us pause, for in them lie buried many of the great ecclesiastical rulers of days gone by. Hard by where stood the altar of St Dunstan, sleeps Simon of Sudbury, archbishop from 1375 to 1381. He was one of those enlightened few who protested against the evil resulting from the promiscuous concourse of pilgrims that resorted to the shrine of St Thomas. Let Dean Stanley tell us the story: “In the year of the fourth jubilee, 1370, the pilgrims were crowding as usual along the great London road to Canterbury, when they were overtaken by Simon of Sudbury, at that time Bishop of London, but afterwards Primate, and well known for his munificent donations to the walls and towers of the town of Canterbury. He was a bold and vigorous prelate; his spirit was stirred within him at the sight of what he deemed a mischievous superstition, and he openly told them that the plenary indulgence which they hoped to gain by their visit to the holy city would be of no avail to them. Such a doctrine from such an authority fell like a thunderbolt in the midst of the vast multitude. Many were struck dumb; others lifted up their voices and cursed him to his face, with the characteristic prayer that he might meet with a shameful death. One especially, a Kentish gentleman—by name, Thomas of Aldon—rode straight up to him, in towering indignation, and said, ‘My Lord Bishop, for this act of yours, stirring the people to sedition against St Thomas, I stake the salvation of my soul that you will close your life by a most terrible death’; to which the vast concourse answered, ‘Amen, Amen.’ The curse, it was believed, prevailed. The vox populi, so the chronicler expressly asserts, turned out to be the vox Dei. ‘From the beginning of the world it never has been heard that any one ever injured the Cathedral of Canterbury, and was not punished by the Lord.’ Eleven years from that time, the populace of London not unnaturally imagined that the rights of St Thomas were avenged, when they saw the unfortunate Primate dragged out of the Tower, and beheaded by the Kentish rebels under Wat Tyler. His head was taken to his native place, Sudbury, where it is still preserved. His body was buried in the tomb, still to be seen on the south side of the choir of the Cathedral, where not many years ago, when it was accidentally opened, the body was seen within, wrapped in cerecloth, the vacant space of the head occupied by a leaden ball.”

Archbishop Stratford (1333-48) lies to the west of the above, a monument sadly defaced. It was he who rendered weighty service to Edward III., when the monarch looked upon him with unfavourable eye, considering that it was his advice that had caused his, the King’s, troubles. The archbishop fled from London, seeking refuge at Canterbury. He preached a pathetic sermon to the multitudinous congregation that had flocked into the Cathedral, concluding by excommunicating the King’s evil advisers. When the last words were spoken, the torches that struggled with the gloom were put out; the bell was tolled; the people scattered in confusion. So great was the power and awe of holy church in those days that this proceeding of the archbishop’s proved powerfully effective and the King’s hand was stayed.

Then there is the tomb of Cardinal Kemp, archbishop from 1452-54, with a curious wooden canopy. He was at Agincourt with Henry V.

On the north side, noticeable is the monument to Archbishop Chichele, founder of the colleges of St John and of All Souls, Oxford, by the fellows of which latter college his tomb is kept in repair. The effigy of the living man is gruesomely put in conjunction with a grisly skeleton in a winding sheet; to the mediÆval mind death was almost disgustingly horrible. It was he who aided and abetted Henry V. in his preposterous claim upon the throne of France, which prosaic plea has been turned into poetry by Shakespeare in Scene 2 Act I. of The Life of King Henry the Fifth.

Then of much more recent date, William Howley (1828-48), who so bitterly opposed the Roman Catholic Relief Bill and the Reform Bill, which brought him disfavour with the good citizens of Canterbury. He crowned Queen Victoria, and performed the marriage ceremony of the Prince Consort.

Archbishop Bourchier (1454-86) also lies here; who was visited by the Maronite Patriarch of Antioch, Peter II., with his camels and his dromedaries, and who left to the church “one image of the Holy Trinity of pure gold, with the diadem, and xj balassers, x saphires, and xliiij gems called perlys.”

Then proceeding toward the east we enter the Trinity Chapel, standing upon the same site as the old chapel of the same name.

But it is not our purpose here to write in detail the story of Canterbury Cathedral; it can be found elsewhere by those who desire it; all our aim is to tell sufficient of it and in such manner as to make the building a living thing, not the dead mass to which it is too often reduced by guides and guide-books.

To the skill and genius of English William we owe the Trinity Chapel, where stood the shrine of St Thomas of Canterbury, now but a memory, where still stands the tomb of Edward the Black

Prince, who, in his will, laid it down that he should be buried in the crypt, but here in the brighter light he lies. A splendid figure of romance he was—a great fighter, and, as such, beloved of his race; the boy victor of Cressy; the conqueror at Poitiers, where the French King became his captive; in his life the glory of his country, by his untimely death leaving it to anarchy and civil war. A great figure of a man, a name resonant in history, yet on the whole one of the least effective of our princes in that his work lasted not. We stand by his tomb, looking upon his effigy which is life-like in its strength. “There he lies: no other memorial of him exists in the world so authentic. There he lies, as he had directed, in full armour, his head resting on his helmet, his feet with the likeness of ‘the spurs he won’ at Cressy, his hands joined as in that last prayer which he had offered up on his death-bed.” That prayer which he uttered when the evil spirit, the lust of revenge, departed from him: “I give Thee thanks, O God, for all Thy benefits, and with all the pains of my soul I humbly beseech Thy mercy to give me remission of those sins I have wickedly committed against Thee; and of all mortal men whom, willingly or ignorantly, I have offended, with all my heart I desire forgiveness.” He died on Trinity Sunday in the forty-sixth year of his age. Above the canopy hang his gauntlets, his helm, his velvet coat that once blazed with the arms of England and of France, and the empty scabbard of his sword. We stand by this tomb, and all the horror, brutalities, cruelties of those cruel days are forgotten, and the air resounds with echoes of the trumpets of chivalry.

Close by lie Henry IV. and his second queen, Joan of Navarre; in 1832 the tomb was opened, and the body of the King found in strangely perfect preservation: “the nose elevated; the beard thick and matted, and of a deep russet colour; and the jaws perfect, with all the teeth in them except one fore-tooth.” Hard by is the small chapel founded by the King, “a chauntre perpetuall with twey prestis for to sing and prey for my soul”; but their voices are hushed.

Here also are the monuments of Odo Coligny, brother of the famous admiral, and of Archbishop Courtenay (1381-96); he gave munificently to the building and its adornment; he was the judge before whom Wiclif was arraigned, and found no pity in his heart for the reformer’s disciples.

Fortune has spared for us three of the interesting thirteenth-century windows in this chapel, and they well repay study. The rest were smashed amid the ruinous havoc decreed by Henry VIII., which is described elsewhere. The pictures are of scenes connected with the miracles wrought by the dead saint, with representations of his first tomb in the crypt below and of his later shrine in this very chapel.

Becket’s Crown forms the easternmost portion of the Cathedral. The old-time explanation that this chapel was so named as having contained once a part shorn off from the saint’s skull by the sword of one of his murderers, can scarcely be correct. On the north stands the tomb of Cardinal Archbishop Pole (1556-58), who died but two-and-twenty hours after his cousin and patron, Queen Mary; and, in the centre, the chair of St Augustine, carved out of three pieces of Purbeck marble. By some it has been called the chair of St Ethelbert, saying that he himself used it as a throne, and, after his conversion, gave it to the greater saint. Others, more cautious, hold that it dates only from the Translation of St Thomas in 1220. Indeed, it is a question of “may-be” and “may-not-be,” such an one as delights the hearts of militant archÆologists.

St Andrew’s and St Anselm’s towers, both Prior Ernulf’s work, stand opposite each other on the north and south sides of the Trinity Chapel, and are sturdy survivors of the great fire that destroyed Conrad’s choir. Dividing St Anselm’s tower from the aisle is the beautiful altar tomb of Archbishop Simon de Mepham (1328-33), with ornate canopy, who, so it is said, died of a broken heart, the Pope siding with Grandison, Bishop of Exeter, in his quarrel with the archbishop. At the east end of this chapel stood the altar of St Peter and St Paul, behind which St Anselm was buried. Of the saintly figures connected with the Cathedral, that of Anselm is one of the most fascinating; a personality purely mediÆval in its saintly piety and its sturdy, unbreakable upholding of the rights of mother church against the encroachments of the temporal powers. After a life of turmoil and trial, he died here in Canterbury, and sleeps in this chapel that bears his name. Above is the watching chamber, where nightly and night-long a monk stood keeping watch and ward over the treasures of the shrine of St Thomas. At least this is one account of the uses made of this chamber—but there are others. But with whatever object it may have been, there can be small doubt that for one purpose or another a watcher was stationed there at night; solemn his task and his vigil, yet not without its moments of beauty, as all know who have wandered in a vast cathedral, when the moon pours its dim, misty light through the great windows.

Journeying westward we come to the south choir transept, in the two apses of which there used to stand altars to St Gregory and St John, and here the admirable work of the piscinas and credence tables is well worthy of examination. Here, under the south window, which is a memorial to Dean Alford, lies Archbishop Winchelsea (1294-1313), who was regarded by the poor as a saint on account of his profuse almsgiving. On the north side of the building is the companion transept, where the altars in the two apses were dedicated to St Martin and St Stephen. The white marble altar tomb of Archbishop Tait (1861-82) stands here, erected in 1885, the effigy being the work of Sir Edgar Boehm. While Tait was archbishop the Cathedral was yet again attacked by fire, on September 3, 1872. Bell Harry rang out the alarm; clouds of heavy smoke circled up from the roof of the Trinity Chapel, obscuring the beautiful outlines of the Angel Tower. An hour and a half elapsed before a supply of water was obtained and brought to bear upon the flames. Havoc was wrought to the roof, molten lead poured down into the edifice, but at last the fire was conquered and the church rescued from the threatened repetition of the disaster that had destroyed Conrad’s choir. Te Deum was sung that afternoon from full hearts.

The two western transepts are the building of Prior Chillenden. Opening out of the southern is the chapel of St Michael or the Warrior’s Chapel, built by whom is uncertain, but, according to Willis, probably by Chillenden. The tomb here of Archbishop Stephen Langton is curious: in shape like a coffin of stone, half of it in the chapel and half under the eastern wall. It was Cardinal Archbishop Langton who forced Magna Charta from King John, and who divided the Bible into chapters—both permanent works. In the centre of this chapel is the beautiful sepulchre of Lady Margaret Holland (d. 1437) and her two husbands, John Beaufort, Earl of Somerset (d. 1410), and Thomas, Duke of Clarence (d. 1420), the lady thus surviving her second husband by some seventeen years. The monument is of marble and alabaster, and the three effigies of striking interest.

Then through the passage beneath the steps of

the choir into the transept of the Martyrdom. There remains here little, if anything, that was seen by Becket’s eyes. Here lie buried Archbishop Peckham (1279-92), an interesting monument, and Archbishop Warham (1503-32). The latter was notable—among other things—for his lavish hospitality, and for spending an immense sum upon his palace at Otford, money which he would have lavished upon Canterbury had not the citizens indiscreetly quarrelled with him. He was the friend of Colet and Erasmus, of whose visit here we shall have something to say later on. To the east of this transept is the Lady Chapel, built by Prior Goldstone, the fan-vaulting of which is rich and beautiful.

We may now descend into the crypt, so ending our brief survey of the interior of the Cathedral. This crypt, which we owe to Prior Ernulf, subsequently Bishop of Rochester, is most impressive in its massiveness, its Norman sturdiness, the square bases of the round pillars, the ponderous capitals; the roof, which seems as though too heavy even for such strong supports; the narrow, round-headed windows. The carving, executed after the capitals were put in place, is worthy of note—rough and ready, but thoroughly characteristic. In that portion of the crypt beneath the south transept a French service is still celebrated, an institution which dates from about 1575, when many Protestants sought refuge in Canterbury. They were weavers for the most part, but neither in their works nor their speech do they now survive, though many families of French lineage and name live here still. In the centre of the crypt was the altar and chapel of the Virgin, once glorious with riches, now a dismal desolation, unfrequented, a shadow of a cult no longer here followed. Close by lies buried Cardinal Morton of the famous “fork,” and in the beautiful screen is the tomb of Lady Mohun of Dunster. There is something creepy, uncanny, about these tombs lying dark beneath the mass of building above, something fateful as compared with a grave in some quiet village churchyard. Then there is the chapel of St Gabriel, with the tomb of the Countess of Athol of Chilham Castle (1292), defaced of its splendours. Ernulf’s work ends where the crypt suddenly assumes loftier proportions in the easternmost part built by William the Englishman; here Becket was first buried, here he slept until his remains were translated to the gorgeous shrine in the church above. Here, too, have been found bones, including a skull with marks of violence, which may be, which may not be, the martyr’s. Not only is this eastern portion of the crypt loftier, but also lighter in its architectural features: the Norman style has vanished, we have here very early Early English, pointed arches, circular capitals, the beginning of “sweetness and light.”